Cry
by Sylla
Summary: -She knows she can't heal him. All she can do is try to make him a little less broken.- Trish and Dante. Because even demon hunters aren't exempt from tears. Post DMC 1, oneshot.


SYLLA UPDATES WHAT

Jaisus, I think the last time I updated was in _December_. Don't kill me. -cowers- And ho shite, I'm gone for a couple months and the whole uploading process is new and shiny!

I actually never intended to post this, because it's so undeniably mopey. Ah well, at least it's not WAFF. But I reread it a while ago and I liked it better, so here you are. For those of you who maybe won't figure it out (because, if you notice, there's not a single name in the whole thing) it's Dante and Trish, with Dante doing the talking.

Okay, new pet peeve. When people mix up homonyms. Srsly gais, we _write_ things, we don't _rite_ them. (And those uncomfortable shoes grown women wear? _Heels_, not _heals_.) Anyway.

**Disclaimer: **Capcom owns the _Devil May Cry _series, and all related characters, etc. I, being in no way affiliated with Capcom, logically do not. (But this story is copyright Me. What you heard, people.)

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**-:Cry:-**

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It's on one of those nights, when the rain strikes the windows in a steady pitter-patter, that she finds him sitting on the couch downstairs, in the dark. There is a beer bottle dangling limply from his numb fingers, unopened.

"Hey," she greets him, but he doesn't answer; doesn't look like he notices she's there. She sits down anyway. A light hand on his arm is all it takes for him to look at her, and even in the almost-dark, she can see his face clearly. If ever there was an instance in which the word 'haunted' could apply, it is now. Gently, she takes the bottle from his hand, and sets it on the floor.

The moon peeks out from a gap in the clouds, and he looks up at it with something unreadable (_unspeakable_) in his expression.

"It was a night just like this one." His voice shatters the not-quite-silence between them like brittle glass; clearly audible over the sound of the rain.

"Just like this," he clarifies, "when I lost him." There's no need to name names. Where he is concerned, there is only one _him_ that is lost - one too many.

"It was kind of a wild goose chase, y'know? Up the tower, down the tower, back up and straight up again. To Hell. And in the end, all I got was a sword." He snorts. "'I went to Hell for my brother and all I got was this lousy sword'. A brother for a sword. Doesn't seem like a fair exchange, does it?" He sighs then, and hums a little nothing-tune she can't quite catch. (_How drunk could he be on one unopened bottle?_)

"And then - and _then_," he emphasizes, "he was there again, _right there _in front of me, and I didn't even realize until it was too _fucking_ late-" He smashes one fist into the leather seat, cutting off the sentence.

He chuckles then, and it worries her because it doesn't sound like a real laugh, not like he usually laughs. It's mechanical, fake.

"Sometimes I think I must have the worst luck in the history of everything." He smiles a fake smile because he knows this is untrue: not even bad luck could be responsible for _this_ much misfortune. "Or maybe this is is all one big joke, a Divine Comedy for the amusement of the gods-" except there are no gods here, only demons - "'Let's give him back his brother in the shape of a brainwashed minion, see if he realizes; that should be fucking _hilarious_...'"

There is a silence. Then, a slow coughing sound and she realizes he's crying. It is a terrible sound. Tentatively, she puts first one arm, then the other, around him; he doesn't resist. Instead, he buries his head in the crook of her neck. His tears are warm on her skin.

"I had him," he murmurs. "He was right there, right in front of me, and I was too _stupid_ to see... And now he's gone and it's my fault _again_, dammit!"

These last words are a fierce whisper, and she flinches, because she doesn't need to look into his eyes (_so blue_) to see that he blames her, too, even though he hides it; because she didn't tell him and - is there no god up there to take _pity_ on him?

All she can do is cradle him in her arms and whisper _I'm sorry, I'm sorry_, because she's not his mother, or his father or his brother; they've all fallen one by one and he's the only one left, and this is all he's left with. She's just a no-one with a familiar face pasted on. All she can do is try to make him a little less broken.

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Wanna know what else Capcom owns? Phoenix Wright. I have to write some PW fanfiction. **Like right now.**

... Damn, now I feel like writing fluff. Or not.

(Hey look guys there's a spellchecker! Nifty.)


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